I dare say that you, like me, are already addicted to the BBC's latest drama, Party Animals, which purports to show what life is really like in the Westminster hothouse, where MPs and others indulge in an orgy of drugs, drink, dirty tricks, bonking and "briefing". But how true to reality is it? The Guardian consulted various "insiders", including Derek Draper, who used to whisper in Pedro Mandelson's ear. Mr Blair, noted Mr Draper, was "a lot more interested in men's chat about girls than people would think". Once, he added, the PM asked a friend of Draper's how he got so many women to go out with him. "Well," explained the friend, "it's because I work for you." This astonished Mr Blair. "Imagine what I could be getting up to!" I dare say something similar floated through Mr Major's mind, which may be why he ended up applying soapy bubble to Edwina Vindaloo's back. A Salmond leap from Carlo to Alex

SO, arrivederci Gian Carlo Menotti, beloved by music buffs but less so by ramblers keen to tramp over his estate on the outskirts of Gifford in East Lothian. Many a time and oft one has wandered in the woods around Yester House, old Gian Carlo's 300-year-old pile, only to come across frightening signs warning that trespassers were unwelcome and liable to attack by sabre-toothed tigers - trained specially to marmelise anyone clad in Goretex.

Not surprisingly, one's reaction was to beat a cowardly retreat to the nearby Goblin Ha' inn where a glass of Dutch courage is always on tap.

I note from the obits that Gian Carlo's reasons for living in Scotland were threefold. First, he liked silence, which apparently costs a fortune to obtain in his native Italy. Secondly, he preferred cold to heat. And thirdly, he had far too many Italian relatives who would never leave him in peace. Perhaps that is why he so took agin' ramblers.

By a spooky coincidence, Gian Carlo died the same week I was reunited with my old chum Alexei Salmonella, czar of the Gnats. The full fruit of which can be savoured in Seven Days. Few folk realise that Mr Salmonella and Mr Menotti were umbilically attached.

In another millennium, the former, aged 11, played the title role in the latter's opera, Amahl and the Night Visitors. Indeed, at one point Mr Salmonella appeared destined for a stellar career on the stage.

Can you not just picture him as the Phantom of the Opera or the MC in Cabaret? Alas, his voice broke. One can only imagine what a loss this was to the world of showbiz.

Best things come in small packages IF memory serves me right, it was my dear chum Martin Amis who said that there are some people who are tall beyond usefulness. I agree.

Of course, it is handy sometimes to have a few extra inches, when trying to put a suitcase on top of a wardrobe, say, or - in the old days - when on the terracings at a football match. Otherwise, what's the point of tall people?

It was a question I asked myself last year at Parkhead when Celtic took on FC Copenhagen. The latter were built like Brobdingnags while the former looked like they'd been brought up in a chimney.

Yet, as the game progressed it was obvious that by the time one of the Danish players transmitted a thought to his feet the play had moved on and the ball was elsewhere. Not so with the Celtic players, whose brains were so close to their feet they were probably in them.

I mention this because of a report published last week, in which it was revealed that the tallest people on the planet are the Dutch, closely followed by the Norwegians, the Danish and the Germans.

In previous studies, the Americans had been the tallest but they appear to have shrunk somewhat, perhaps because of their love of junk food. This was reported as if it were bad news for the Americans, suggesting that there is some correlation between height and health.

Thus the more veg one eats the more likely one is to grow into a beanstalk. On the other hand, stick to turkey twizzlers and you can expect to be the size of a vole.

What no one save me seems concerned about, however, is the effect on the planet and the massive carbon footprints all these jolly green giants are leaving.

Take the Dutch, who on average are six feet tall. Klub Lange Mensen, an organisation for tall people, has campaigned successfully for the height of doorframes to be increased. They've also had ceilings raised, cars modified and beds lengthened. Because of the Dutch, it seems, everything must get bigger. It's ridiculous.

As we Scots know it's perfectly possible to have a reasonably contented and fulfilled life and still live in a rabbit hutch. Small is beautiful and ecologically correct. Arise Lilliputians and unite!

Bill finds Holyrood Windows a bargain HOW we chortled when we learned that the masters of our peedie universe had at one time considered allowing sponsorship of Holyrood, envisioning a gigantic M perched atop the roof.

In the event, we were told, wiser heads prevailed and the possibility of it becoming known as The Bawdyshop or Talk Shop or Kwik Fix did not in the end come to pass. What we did not bargain for, however, was Bill Gates who last week gave MSPs a day off and took over the debating chamber. Ostensibly, delegates were meant to be addressing the topic "government leaders"; in the event, Mr Gates used the opportunity to launch yet another Windows update.

Why he wasn't directed to a bog-standard conference venue we do not know. Nor do we know how many, if any, spondulicks he paid to hire Holyrood for the day. What we do know is that such a thing would be impossible to imagine at Westminster.

What next? Bar mitzvahs, revivalist meetings, Fringe shows? 21st-century common-riding flirts with the dark ages

TO Hawick, where fears of a return to the dark ages have been "angrily dismissed" ( Hawick Times). I refer, of course, to the Common Riding, no innuendo intended.

A few years ago the Borders town erupted in Sicilian-style in-fighting over the admission of women into the annual, men-only event - the very idea of which brought some Hawickians out in a rash the colour of oil seed rape. This week, however, controversy flared again when the Common-Riding Committee was "rocked" by the "shock" resignation of its chairman, Jim Hogg. Mr Hogg, a New Man, denied that he'd handed in his notice because of a resurgence of male chauvinism but refused to elaborate, beyond saying: "I wish my predecessor...every success in the future." Hmmm.

As far as I can tell, the present rammy revolves around a hut on the moors, to which the reivers repair at six in the morning to drink rum and milk - an unlikely cocktail. Some men, it has been rumoured, are resentful that women are now allowed to partake in this glitzy ceremony.

However, one Mr Chlopas, speaking on behalf of the C-RC, said: "Any claims that we were against women using the hut is nothing more than people trying to stir things up. This is not a return to the dark ages. Those days are long gone."

How true, how true.

Such is Hawick at the dawn of the 21st century.